AKATSUKI
by WeSailShips
Summary: She goes by many names and many faces. She is many things to many people—a desire, a ghost, an enemy and a weapon, a mark, a hostage, a deadly threat, a sister and a friend, a woman, a daughter, a thousand other else. Careful, she is as silent as the messenger of death.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Seed. This disclaimer is true to all the next chapters of this story. Any identical circumstances and scenarios to other fanfics is purely coincidence.

A/N: So, here we are! This is shamelessly AU. And I have no beta, so any mistakes and/or confusions please let me know and I'd do my best to make it more readable. As I am occupied with my studies, please don't grudge me if updates are late, or very late for that matter. I'm an asshole by nature, so if you're someone who whines about updates, well, we're not going to be friends. To those who are patient and cool, thank God people like you exist. ^^

Warning: I believe that characters tend to go out-of-character when placed in an alternate universe. I myself hate it when they go OOC, because duh? But then I realize and learn as I was writing this, that yes, circumstances and environments shape a person. This is not canon, therefore we cannot completely base these characters from canon; we can just do so loosely. It is its own story after all. The foundation of personalities of each character will be cemented from the originals though, which I hope I could pull off. These characters have their own story, so please have an open mind when reading, and don't judge until you know the whole story behind them, k? And to the kids, go read something else. Seriously.

Thanks for reading this awfully long note, enjoy what's beyond!

* * *

 **AKATSUKI**

By: _WeSailShips_

* * *

The static of his earpiece is a familiar disturbance. Footfalls that are too quiet to detect gait the grounds around the dilapidated factory, soundless and close to the shadows for cover. Eyes that are far too trained sweep every corner, sharper so as not to miss a thing. He waits, patient and unmoving as he observes the abandoned factory behind the secure jacket of darkness.

He presses his left wrist to his mouth. "Status report" he murmurs.

"Not a damn thing." The static cackles to the impatient hiss of Joule.

"Negative, Commander," reports Elsman. There's a series of 'negatives' from the various agents situated around the perimeter, all blanketed by the shadows like him.

Remaining patient had never been in Agent Joule's list of specialties, so when the man opens the communication, he conveys as much. It's irritating, but Joule is right. They've been waiting for nearly fifty minutes, and there is still no sign of their target.

"Zala we are wasting time, goddamn it!" Joule argues hotly, hissing quietly.

"Be patient Joule," MacKenzie interrupts calmly, and as though an afterthought, adds, "And there should be a Commander there somewhere."

Athrun shakes his head almost unconsciously. It's amusing how they could still bicker under extreme pressure. Briefly he wonders if Elsman's too tense (or really, just scared shitless) to join the two idiots, usually he's the one who starts their childish arguments. Athrun inches forward, keeping his back to the worn concrete wall. Joule and MacKenzie are still at it in the background, lightening the tense air a tiny bit with their quiet squabble.

"I have a visual on the target," the feminine voice cuts through their comm link, immediately silencing any sound. They all still, hands in their customized rifles and pistols, eyes and ears alert.

They all wait with bated breaths, their usually professional compartmentalization of emotions barely surfacing. Where this team was normally professionally calm and composed, today they are tense and anxious. Athrun can't blame his team really; this target singlehandedly had Tehran on its knees just a couple weeks ago.

Her codename is 'Akatsuki'.

She was a ghost story until a few months ago.

There's been a bounty on her head for years apparently. In the depths of the criminal world, where the world's toughest and nastiest bastards are bred, she was as alive to them as she was a ghost to the oblivious. Underworld huntsmen have gone far and wide just to see for themselves why such a girl has gold piling on her cute little nickname. Many searched, few saw, most died.

Other than the knowledge that she is both exceptionally beautiful and deadly, no other information was known of her. Akatsuki is a spy, a wicked master in her craft, a clever tool of international espionage. Highly skilled and vastly intelligent, and given a significant amount of aesthetic beauty, she manipulates men and use them to her discretion, murdering them when she's deemed them useless. A femme fatale who's far too excellent at what she does. A Black Widow made flesh.

Recently, Akatsuki's kills have been a little more pronounced; her marks have been those the public has familiarity of.

There is disquiet in the International Security Committee. The higher ups want her hunt down and as much as possible, bring her to custody, question her intensions, and well, basically, ask her what the hell she's up to.

For this woman to have had rumpled these old folks' manicured feathers, she must have done some really awful shit.

Unlike these agents, Athrun Zala has never heard one speck of this Akatsuki. It has only been a few months since he'd been recruited. Warfare was his forte primarily. Afghanistan. Iraq. He's a veteran, has been on the service since he was sixteen. Is a decorated war hero, has been on hundreds of different assignments, rescued lives far more than he cares to count. He excels in tactical combat, hailed a brilliant tactician both by his men and superiors from the army.

During the length of his service, he's been given breaks more than most. Due to his outstanding clean-cut record he suspects. He comes home for a few weeks more than once a year. But more than half a year ago, his father ordered his release. His mother is dying. And she is asking for her son. He agreed to his father's order immediately and also requested for his release, which he was given a few months afterwards.

A good ten years of service.

"I see her" Elsman murmurs. "Damn, she's hot."

"You don't even see her face idiot," Joule mocks, obviously rolling his eyes by the sound of it.

"Dude, Yzak, my friend, if you are not as ramrod-straight as I thought you were, I would accept you. You know that," Elsman dramatically whispers. The others are probably too tense to laugh, but quiet snorts burst from a few. Athrun included. Joule's silence is deafening. It probably promises torture after this.

"Man, look at those curves," Agent Aiman sighs, the breath he releases slightly unpleasant with the volume of their earpiece. "What I'd give to feel 'em."

"Shut up Aiman. All 'ya stop praising the bitch. What's so great about her anyway? She ain't even punctual, the wench." Another masculine voice—that has an accent that should come out funny, but isn't—grumbles.

"Suck it up. A woman is never late."

It's hard to believe some of these men are amongst the deadliest human beings. That among these men are the best soldiers ZAFT has in its very long list of secret agents, among the best in the world even, is quite hard to believe. As unbelievable their individuality is relative to their jobs, this team has rarely failed a mission. This team is the higher up's go-to asset when things are too difficult to handle, and who they send to missions of extreme importance. Even in the most difficult of environments and situations, these agents are deadly. They are ZAFT's assault team, the one who first stopped evil before it actually comes out to the world.

So the fact that Athrun is leading this group of highly professional killers is equal parts overwhelming and confusing. He must have made one hell of a reputation.

For this girl to have employed the service of an entire ZAFT team— _this_ team, no less—she must be real trouble. They badly need to bring her in.

"Target is approaching contact, countdown: three minutes to assault," another reports.

Athrun finally has a visual of their target. Dressed completely in a stealth black bodysuit, Akatsuki looks every bit the scant stories of her told—dangerous, lethal. Neither an inch of skin nor hair is bared. Twin pistols are strapped on either side of her thighs, two long knives crisscross against her back, and tiny discs peeks out her utility belt where all her other toys are carefully concealed. The fabric around her head supports a black plastic mask of sorts where her eyes are supposed to be, Athrun supposes that's what makes her see.

Their guy goes directly as been ordered. He talks to her, the silver case he's holding out as silver as his tongue. In it contains a serum of complicated chemical design. Unbeknownst to her, it's a sham. Their guy breach topics with topnotch skill, bringing up her uncharacteristic clashes these days. " _Your nature_ , he says, the British lilt in his voice casual, " _is destroying from the shadows_. _It's peculiar how public your last mission was._ " She doesn't breathe a word.

The agent continues extracting her of what little he could get out of her—which to their dismay, is next to nil.

"Twenty-three seconds to assault."

Their guy is talking still, calm and collected, setting down the grounds of their false negotiation, luring her attention. The one-sided conversation is carried smoothly by the microphone installed on their guy's glasses. Akatsuki doesn't speak, only nods _._ When she does though, it leaves them momentarily breathless.

"It's about time your friends come out."

She pulls off her gun before any of them even realize she'd moved. She shoots their guy point blank.

A pause, and then a curse, distinctly Joule's.

Athrun comms Elsman—who's manning a 50 cal Sniper Rifle up on a roof—ordering him to shoot her leg. "I don't have a clear shot!" the agent responds hotly, frustration palpable in his voice. "She's moving way too fast."

Damn it.

"Open fire!" Athrun bellows, blowing his cover as he runs out of the shadows, the cacophony of gunshots in his wake. Akatsuki hides behind empty metal drums, behind the shadows where she easily fits in, shooting down agents with lethal precision, all the while defending herself flawlessly. Athrun can hear his teammates' voices in his comm link as he unloads his handgun, some grunting, some whimpering, much hollering, and a whole lot of cursing. He dashes forward, towards where Akatsuki disappeared seconds ago, eyes sweeping the grounds like a hawk as he goes, stops for a breath, and ultimately decides to chase.

He gives chase, running towards the entrance of the lobby of the factory where his keen eyes detects a tiny shift of movement. "Surround the factory!" he orders over the roar of gunfire and voices. The innards of the factory are steadily crumbling into rust, with some of its metal gangways inclined and its chains almost corroded. Inside, light is limited only in the form of shafts of moonlight pushing through the countless holes of the walls and roof, small and gaping alike. With gun held in both his hands, Athrun strains his senses, glancing left and right and up, treading boot-covered feet softly on the dirty concrete.

Several of his men follow closely behind him. When they're at a passable distance, Athrun makes a hand gesture and what agents there nod uniformly. Sudden movement is caught by a male agent and he empties his clip towards the moving target's direction as the shadow ran and dart quickly behind a wide metal shaft. They rush to surround it, adrenaline pumping, ringing in their ears, pushing at their steady, strong beating hearts. Too late tough, as a pistol's sleek form peeks from behind the beam, the silver of its metal catching the moon's eerie light, and two agents drop dead from its successive _bang, bang_.

Athrun's men ask for orders, both those still outside hurrying to get to them, and the ones with him inside. He periodically reminds himself that this isn't war, isn't a battlefield where the tank's roar can drown out his hollered orders. He cannot compromise their positions. Akatsuki may only be just one person but damn the girl has a pretty head between her shoulders.

Somewhere above them, Akatsuki is striding the catwalks with silent feet, throwing her tiny discs towards their strategically scattered ranks. Yet another one of Athrun's men went down, the one farthest from him. He looks behind where Aiman lies prone with his face scrunched in pain, clenched teeth showing as he fights against a scream, grunting and growling. A tiny disc has penetrated the left skin on Aiman's neck, sending who knows how much bolts of electricity down his chest, into his spine, up his brain. MacKenzie's eyes are a little less composed now, his voice loud in the cavernous space. "Fuck. Aiman! Aiman! Get up, come on man, I'll provide cover!" The nearest exit is approximately twenty five meters away from them. Aiman isn't going to make it. "Aiman's down! Where the hell's the medic?!"

"Sir, we got company! What the-! Shit, shit!"

"Bynes!"

"Oww, that tickled."

"The hell's that?!"

"Report, report!"

"Commander, she brought friends! Goddamn it Eul! Get back, get back rookie!"

"What the-? Are those fucking drones?!"

"Are you fucking kidding me!?"

"Why do these assholes always get better toys?"

At Elsman's confusing huff, Athrun's patience snapped. "Report, damnit!"

"They've surrounded the area. Asking permission to activate Dal-"

"Denied!"

"I wasn't even finished!"

"This is still the outskirts of a civilian area, Yzak! We can't be reckless!"

"Argh, fine! Don't blame me if we all die!"

Something snapped and Athrun twists and points his gun towards the sound. Akatsuki's standing with knives in both her hands, the pale lights catching the metal of the blades and the thick liquid dripping from it. She wields it like an extension of her arms, cutting and slicing through air and skin and muscles as she advances towards them. Already, after only a damn ten seconds, two bodies litter the dirty floor. Her movements are too fast to follow even with their trained eyes, but it's down six to one, agents are shooting at her in different angles. Still, not a bullet manages to hit her. She attacks another, weaving through the shadows and jumping from behind one female agent. The agent drops, the hilt of the knife jutting out the back of her black combat vest. Before she died though, the shot she fired from behind the Akatsuki sails true while their target is busy hitting a male agent across the head with a lever.

"Take that, bitch" she breathes out. Akatsuki snatches out something from her belt and turns, throwing a thin blade straight through the agent's brain. Akatsuki spins around, arm muscles tautening as the steel rod in her hand hurl towards the male agent in severe speed, knocking him out as the thick metal collides against his skull.

The shot does affect Akatsuki. Sort of.

Akatsuki slows a tad bit, her movements less graceful. Her aim though…well, all they can do is pray for reinforcement seeing as the ones outside are busy getting their asses handed to them.

There's only four of them left, one of which is an angry Rusty MacKenzie.

Their guns howl in the silence, poised and professional still even as the glaring evidence of an impending loss is staring them in the face. They do not falter; they attack the assassin with cool desperation, relentless in the feeble lighting of this claustrophobic warehouse. Akatsuki's feet makes a soft and fast dull sound on the inclined gangway as she ran away from their unyielding bullets, the screech of metal hitting metal harsh but familiar. Grabbing the rail at the top, she hauls herself over it, ducks down, and throws something circular at them.

Oh _shit_.

 _Beep, beep, beep._

The grenade goes off.


	2. Chapter 2

Had it not been for his fortunately fast reflexes, Athrun would be a human barbecue by now. The concrete rafter he'd managed to go behind a split-second before the grenade went off took most of the damage. Smoke billows out everywhere, a dry fog of dust and ash. Burnt flesh awash the already stale air a more sickening stench. Cinders and searing metal chunks litter the burning floor, the metallic taste of the latter mixing with the god-awful stink making it more unbearable to breathe.

Although fortunate enough to minimize damage on his person, Athrun didn't go unscathed. The familiar result of an explosive blowing up seriously upsets his senses. His sight goes foggy, further blurring at the edges as he blinks away the dust that managed to shot past his lashes and into his eyeballs. There is ringing in his ear, a single note in piercing, deafening, high pitch, so shrill he recoils. Panting, he feels for injuries, finds several—in the back of his head, his shoulder, the left side of his hip, a bad knee, and cuts over flesh. Nothing he hadn't experienced before. Certainly far from the worst.

After regaining enough sight to make out the wreckage, Athrun forces his mind and body to cooperate. Wheezing, he gets up after catching himself the first attempt and slings off the assault rifle from his back, positioning it against his shoulder. With the ringing still in his ear, and the slight blur in his eyes, he staggers back out of hiding and instantly regrets having come out still disoriented. The muscles in his calf screams as a bullet pass through the flesh. He falls to the floor, managing to drag himself behind a fallen chunk of concrete, metals sticking out of it. A sound comes from above, dull footsteps staggering slightly.

"Damn" Athrun hisses, realizing the reduction in his physical limits. Because the adrenaline still runs rampant in his blood thankfully, he can't yet feel the total pain he's bound to suffer any minute now.

He hears a tiny voice from his left, Rusty's, whimpering weakly into his comm link, which must've been destroyed in the explosion. Through the smoke, Athrun sees a shadow swift pass above and takes aim at it, limping towards his subordinate while firing a barrage of bullets towards the unmistakable black-clad form of Akatsuki.

The assassin hits the floor with a clank, metal clanging against her blades as she falls. A bullet must have managed to hit her somewhere fatal, but Athrun doesn't really care as he crouch over Rusty MacKenzie's thoroughly burnt body. Debris surround them, some large enough to protect them from any bullet shot from an elevated point. The man blinks repeatedly, face thick with ash and dirt, coughing out spit. Dazed and in absolute pain, Rusty holds Athrun's gaze for a second before his half-lidded eyes harden in determination. A breath unconsciously shoot pass Athrun's lips, relieved. "You gonna make it?" Athrun can't help but asked.

"I've been through worse."

Athrun's brows rise heavenward in astonishment, and a question is about to tumble out his mouth when Rusty weakly holds up a hand, the burnt skin in it less severe than most.

"Don't ask man, I can't think right now." Rusty coughs a drooling mix of blood and saliva. Because he is a soldier, Athrun does not flinch at the sight, does not choke on a breath. He does wince though at the sound of Rusty's lungs struggling for air and the unhealthy husk in his throat. "She dead yet?"

As if in answer, a small knife whiz past their heads, the blade just shy of Rusty's ear, cutting strands of red. "Guess not" Athrun hears Rusty mutter as he helps Rusty roll and duck behind metal barrels. Having spent his, Athrun takes one of Rusty's two spare clips with a grateful nod and slot it in his rifle. Rusty loads his gun as well, gripping the customized pistol tightly, jaw locking as he gives Athrun a curt nod. Assured, Athrun moves his gaze about the place, calculating distances and areas and the setting with which he will need to maneuver carefully due to the wreckage, unconsciously brushing his finger in the smooth metal of his rifle's trigger.

"Don't move" Athrun murmurs the order, already moving to bend, gun at the ready.

Rusty mutters something along the line of sarcasm. The other two are dead; one had a long metal shaft speared where his liver is supposed to be and the other, burnt beyond recognition. There's a commotion outside, chorus after chorus of gunfire, of shouts and screams, of strange mechanical sounds. With their comm link dead, they've no chance for back-up until someone manages to escape the battle outside and provide them with another pair of much-needed hands. They must be really busy out there though, if the sounds are any indication.

With the smoke as an insufficient cover, Athrun decides to hide behind the rafters, limping as quickly as he could from one after another. Every shift of shadow is a threat—every movement, every sound, every caught light, everything. Rusty's every shot rings into the cavernous place as he covers Athrun's back, disabling Akatsuki from focusing solely on his commander who now and then, between ducking behind the parallel beams, also bombards her with bullets. She's now on the ground level, hiding behind shadows, darting past between shafts of light, difficult to identify, difficult to locate, difficult to kill. It's tricky shooting down a moving target. And it's made so much harder when that target moves too fast even someone of their caliber can't keep up with its every move.

A ghost of a touch in the back of his neck has Athrun pivoting around the ball of his good leg, pointing the gun at the wall. And he stops.

He stills, and he breathes.

The muzzle of Akatsuki's pistol rests coolly at his temple.

 _Breathe._

The other pistol is positioned towards where Rusty MacKenzie lies glaring at her, his slightly trembling hand pointing his gun at her. Athrun knows Rusty, even with his impossible condition right now, can aim straight and true. He's one of ZAFT's finest, belonging to the Reds, the most elite agents in the organization, the ones sitting at the top of the food chain in the hierarchal ladder of skill sets. And he is nothing if not a remarkable marksman.

It just so happens that Rusty's gun has no bullets left, Athrun having counted off his every shot.

And Akatsuki probably knows it.

He swallows the bile at the back of his throat _._

A second passes, quiet, threatening.

 _Ah, screw it._

Without warning, he launches himself at her, tackling her with surprising speed for someone who has so little momentum. A shot rings and echoes faintly, but the angle had been redirected by his action by the time she'd pulled the trigger, altering her aim from Rusty's head to somewhere just above it. There's a yelp, distinctly male, Rusty's definitely, but Athrun's too occupied to worry. He crushes her to the ground, planting his weight enough so it could take her breath away.

Akatsuki struggles, trying to twist underneath him to gain some semblance of control. Athrun grunts, ramming his fist in her wrist, which proves to have hurt her as the strength in it falters and she drops the silver pistol. She squirms enough that Athrun's weight lift for a fraction of a second and an arm breaks away from his grasp.

 _She's strong_ , he thinks, blocking the elbow that would have otherwise squashed his nose. Turning, Akatsuki uses her elbow's momentum to push his body off her. What comes next has him reeling in pain, as she had drove a solid blow to his temple. Between a steel fist coated in rubbery fabric which clings over long thin delicate-looking fingers and a concrete floor, the hit was pretty brutal. Knees dig against his thighs, messing with his leg muscles. An arm across his neck blocks his airway and has him gasping for whatever air he manages to grasp. His inability to push her back undoubtedly proves that this woman is intimately educated in the art of combat. Her strength is literally breathtaking.

She says something, no more that a murmur he couldn't catch. Placing a palm on her masked cheek, he pushes hard and successfully frees one knee enough to bend it and knee her midriff. A sound tumbles out her lips, somewhere between surprise and maybe, hopefully, a bit of pain. Chance appears and he takes it. It is no more than a second or two, but it's enough to stretch and reach inside his black combat boot for the hilt of a knife no longer than seven inches in total length. By the time Akatsuki regains composure, he's already rolled them so he was straddling her hips, his left hand pinning her right above her head. In the heat of their fight, he'd lost notice of her other pistol, but it's no longer with her. She's probably lost grip on it. Athrun's other hand is pushing the knife's blade against the skin of her covered neck. They are both panting, Athrun more than Akatsuki.

"Are you sure about that?" Akatsuki taunts suddenly, voice so sultry he'd have been flustered if he was not already. There's a slight lilt to her voice, an accent he's little familiarity with. Her lips manage to soften what should have been tough, and sweeten what should have been the harsh sound of an exotic tongue. She moves her left arm and he tenses, about to stop her when she whispers, "You move, they die."

Held in her fingers is a small cube, black with a neo silver circle on one side.

Ah crap.

The design of it is simple, sleek. Because Athrun lives and breathes war for so long now, seeing this piece of innocuous-looking device sets his blood freezing. In the military, taking into consideration their structure and design, they're bigger and blunter, and by blunt he means they don't look harmless at all. This, however, is. Agents call them toys. ZAFT's R&D Department breeds genius, morphing weapons of mass destruction into innocent things, designing dangerous tools and shaping it into kind forms.

 _Detonator_.

 _Bomb_.

Realization is cruel. It claws at his heart, claws where it injures something he thought he'd outgrown. _You are a disappointment boy_ , it rumbles solemnly. He shakes his head surreptitiously, trying and failing to rid himself of such unwanted old memories.

He'd been duped. They'd been duped. Their trap had never been theirs to begin with. Beneath theirs, carefully veiled by shadows and cleverness, Akatsuki had laid out her own snare. They've lost before they even entered this game. She'd choreographed this before it started, securing her her victory.

 _So this is her, huh? Akatsuki._ Athrun marvels, but doesn't dare say. _Jesus Christ._

His brain reels with strategies, hundreds upon hundreds of worthless tactical approach. Akatsuki is many things, but she should have a weakness. Right? What? She's physically resilient to pain. Doesn't seem a tiny threatened in the least. He doesn't know shit about her. What now? The noise outside escalates. _Might as well_.

"If you press that," he grounds out behind clenched teeth, collected but desperate, "your friends outside will die too."

She seems to smirk beneath that damned mask. "I don't have friends, soldier."

Athrun coaxes back his escaping patience, summons forth his infinite control, and pushes his weight against her roughly. When that's not enough, he closes his fingers along her throat and cruelly squeezes, lifting her neck and abruptly digging her skull into the concrete floor. When she starts panting out foreign curses and throwing reckless punches, he pokes the blade of the knife in her neck, reminding her who's got the upper hand.

"I got the edge here, so stop squirming and answer me. How'd you know? Did you plant a bug in our system?" He asks it roughly, muscles aching as she struggles further. The cube's silver circle glows by its edge, metallic and daunting, the circular LED light threatening. A reminder still that no, he does not have the upper hand. She'd tipped the scale into equilibrium long before he'd had a chance of slanting it to his favor. She will not give up the damn cube. She's not dumb enough, not soft enough. If he's being honest, he's more than a little terrified. He does not dare unhand her.

As Akatsuki further struggles, the black fabric over her lips moves. She's smiling behind it, as though to taunt, as if to say, " _Would you expect anything less?_ " Athrun feels her leg move under his, and so quickly it felt like time did not move at all, her heel is burrowing in his calf, in his flesh wound.

A ragged cry tore out of his throat.

"Stand down," she orders coldly as he sweated, rapidly panting out air in her face. Pain is shrieking for him to heed, and his mind is a battlefield of its own, so many sounds, in so many different range. A singular voice swarm in the disharmony of his mind, his, screaming in pain, ordering himself to endure, _Be strong, you're strong! For God's sake, you're not gonna die today Athrun_. His knife's blade sinks in her shoulder and Akatsuki gasps a torn, loud breath.

"Surrender" he growls, digging deeper. "Give me the damn cube."

She wheezes, chuckling. "You'll have to do better than that."

Her resistance is praiseworthy, he'll give her that. He was reluctant, but after several tense seconds of thinking over and over, of resisting the swelling pain in his every injury, of his damning calf that's still under her ruthless heel, and finally glancing at the cube in her fingers, he acquiesces, realizing that _No, wrong again, she had the upper hand_.

"Drop the cube."

One of her fingers teases the glowing edge of the circle, rotating around it. "No." The threat is clear.

Before he can kill her, it'll take less than a second for her finger to press the glowing button. He can't kill her anyway; it was not the order given to him. Gritting his teeth Athrun caves, grudgingly releasing her from him as he roll off her.

Akatsuki gracefully sits up, a hand on her shoulder. She looks at him, waves of controlled anger secreting off the stiff set of her shoulders. Some sardonic part of him is secretly smug; it's hard ticking off someone as hardened as her. "The bomb covers the entire perimeter, 'case you're wondering. I suggest you don't plan on further physical exertion. I don't have enough time to humor you." The blood on her suit winks at him at several angles, struck by moonlight. His peripheral view of the liquid distracts him some, a reminder digging itself in his brain. Some of it belongs to her, plenty his men's. "That's not why I'm here. I need you to listen to me."

Athrun's face must've showed his incredulity because she grinds out an annoyed "Men" and a string of grumbled insults towards her opposite sex. Athrun would have found this side of Akatsuki amusing at another time.

"Listen to me," she says, low, flat, grim.

This time, it sends a jolt of awareness to Athrun this time. Crap this is serious. From where he is standing, stance in unconscious readiness, shoulders rigid, hands on either side, ready to pounce if need be, he swallows his anxiety as he recognize that he's treading dangerous waters. Athrun is comfortable with structure, with orders, mission objectives and directives. He is known to follow through the plan. This was not the plan. Lure Akatsuki, capture her alive, bring her to HQ, was the plan. He'd been briefed by ZAFT's Director himself. He'd briefed the same to his team. Another thing the Director said had been a warning, _"Her words are her greatest weapon._ _I trust you'll keep your head Athrun."_

In her fingers is the detonator.

Okay. He's not disobeying protocol. He's just improvising. Yeah.

"Deactivate the cube. Fight me fair and square. Don't include my men, just you and me."

"So naïve," she scoffs. "I am not a man; I don't fight like a man. And in case you haven't noticed Sherlock, the world isn't fair. And would you stop talking, and listen to me?" Where her words contain acidic irritation, her voice is as mocking as they come. Left with no other choice, he nods and asks what the hell she wants. He feels this odd thing though, as though he should be remembering something…something whatever. Maybe it's just him, or his slightly dulled judgment, but her voice, if he listens closely enough, seems a bit familiar?

Akatsuki remains stationary where the shadows partially cover her black form. All the sounds outside—the gunfire, shouts, the empty static of his dead communication line, the blades of the hovering chopper ( _Where did that come from? Is it ours?),_ the roar of the whipping winds—seems to mute when she starts talking. "I'm not sorry for killing most of these men, but I am sorry for injuring you." She motions with a nod. "I needed to."

The beat of his heart dulls, his blood runs cold. He sees red, a sinister shade towards rage, towards the prodigious young man that had won so many battles in wars on foreign nations. "The hell are y-"

"I understand that you're from the army Zala. But wake up, these men are not soldiers. Ram that in your brain because they're not like you. They don't serve a flag, they serve a directive, they fight for intel." Her covered eyes seem to penetrate through his skin, through flesh, through bones, searching, searching, until she finds that which fuels his cause. "Don't be ignorant."

Athrun swallows his anger, breathes deep and looks at her with a leveled gaze.

 _Her words are her greatest weapon._ _I trust you'll keep your head Athrun._

The Director's words echoes in his mind viciously, the voice of his father sounding so unlike one.

He's read enough files to know that she's a master deceiver. Deception is her trusty shield and manipulation is her sword. Seeing her talent play to life, his mind almost caves to the hardness in her voice, to the message behind her words. To the reality she's forcing in his hands. To the honesty he hears. He sees now why toughened men both want and fear this girl. Want her for what she can do, fear her for it too. She is compelling, persuasive; the most convincing actress he'd ever seen, rousing thoughts ought not to be considered. Her words alone had shaken the foundation of a hardened nation's even more hardened leader. What more, a kind man's loyalty?

But all the same, does she really think he's dumb?

"What are you trying to say? Trust you? Don't make me laugh."

"I didn't take you as stupid Zala."

His brow ticks. His interest, to his chagrin, quietly piques. "Then what?"

She sobers, voice absent of mockery, all business and serious. "You've been my objective from the start. I set this up because of you. I'm just warning you is all, these people you're serving now may turn against you. I can't risk them hearing something."

The snorted "Unbelievable" he releases does not insult her. Nor is the shaking of his head as what her words imply set his spine ramrod-straight. "What do you want from me?"

She seems to sigh if the sagging in her shoulders is any indication. "Wait a second. It's in here somewhere." Fumbling with her suit, he scoffs yet again because apparently, she's programmed to move gracefully even still of this small an action. While she's occupied at her fumbling, he looks to the side to glance inconspicuously at MacKenzie. He's out cold. Not dead, but unconscious, breathing shallow breaths. Her words echo in his buzzing mind, _I_ _can't risk them hearing something._ Athrun looks harder, but then the soft voice of his supposed target reaches his ear. "I just knocked him out, don't worry." When he looks up to see that she's still searching at her belt, she says without looking up, shrugging one shoulder, "One of the perks of having my kind of toys."

A few seconds later, a sleek piece of thin metal is shoved under his nose. His narrowed eyes gaze searchingly at hers, which would look stupid as it is covered entirely, but still. With furrowed brows, Athrun takes the drive. Plated in aluminum metal, it looks as simple as that—a piece of metal.

Akatsuki must've read the confusion in his face, because the tick of her jaw underneath the fabric shows so. "You don't trust me, we've discussed that. Frankly, I could care less what you think." She pauses, seeming to glare at him behind that cold hard mask. "But I need you. Somebody's hot on my tail and I don't have much choice. I'm desperate. I know I'm putting your life on the line but I need you to deliver that drive in Lisbon. Give it to a man nam-"

He interrupts before she can continue. "And what in the world makes you think I'd agree to this?"

Her chin raises, defiant, confident. "His name is Kira Yamato. You know him, I'm sure?" She pauses, looking to the side. "I don't know why he'd trust you, but he does. So there's that."

A beat, and all at once. A hand, cold and rough, closes around his heart. _Oh God, no._ Dread settles in his stomach, digging until the hole becomes an infinite chasm of fear and panic and emotions he's too far gone to identify. It eats at his gut, swallows whole his control, building and spreading throughout every corner of his nerves, trampling all in its wake.

What has she done?

He lost it.

"What the hell did you do to him?!" Athrun shouts, fingers closing around into tight trembling balls, rage hot and strong, burning his ever stoic cool.

His fist ram against air. Akatsuki has dodged the blow and is behind him, twisting one arm securely behind him. "Be more loud, why don't you?" Akatsuki hisses out behind clenched teeth, keeping his other fist against his chest with five thin fingers and covering his mouth with the other palm. He struggles, eyes blazing dangerously, dark like a wild forest. Lean, strong muscles ripple against his arm, Akatsuki's strength binding him against her, mocking his own strength bested by a woman's. His head throws back fiercely, trying and failing to ram his skull against hers. The palpitation of his heart steadily increases in rhythm, beating against his rib cage like an untamed animal. Control is so far away, too far away for his clouded mind. There is something screaming in his brain, not quite human, not quite real. He's in panic; that much he knew. But try as he might, he can't reign in his mortification and his fear.

"Calm down Athrun." The voice is oddly less heartless, oddly less controlled. Had he been listening intently enough, he'd have heard the hitch there, the tiny sprinkle of fear mixed in a puddle of calm there.

But his heart does not care for comfort, for it wants security, reassurance, that his best friend is not an enemy.

 _All at once he's a kid again, lost and confused, somewhere in a park with many big people. He calls for his mother, his father, eyes teary and innocent and scared. A hand clamps on his shoulder, equally small, equally harmless. Curious purple eyes peek from behind a mop of brown bangs, large as he asks, "Hi. Are you lost?"_

" _S'okay. I'll help you."_

" _Athrun? My name is Kira. Kira Yamato."_

 _A little girl, with pretty eyes, and plenty laughs, and blonde hair, and cool red sneakers. "That's my twin sister. She's Cagalli."_

 _Of words said in so little a voice, as though a secret he'll not tell to anyone else, "She tells Ma, Da and Unca Athha she's older than me." A quiet laugh they share, too young to be tainted by the world._


End file.
